


Whenever We Feel - We Evaporate

by bene_elim



Series: Innocence and Experience [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Introspection, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, aziraphale is an Anxious Mess, it all works out though!!, mostly just both of them thinking too much and worrying and hurting themselves needlessly, reciprocated love, so is Crowley, they live inside their own heads too much, they're both sad and anxious, this is my first work n i dont know how tags work, this went in a completely different direction to what i had planned so maybe ill make it a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 05:29:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20040697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bene_elim/pseuds/bene_elim
Summary: In which Aziraphale overthinks to the point of near destruction, Crowley yearns for forgiveness and love, and miscommunication is the true villain blocking their path to happiness."‘Do you? Love me?’‘Yes,’he answered, meaningI adore youand not justI grant you absolutionas Crowley must believe. He ached with the feeling he had felt radiating off Crowley in that pub, drinking his grief."





	1. Angel: Suppose There Were a Place That We Know Nothing Of

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my very first piece of fanfiction ever, and the very first piece of prose I have written in years, so I'm very nervous about posting this. I'm a poet, really. It's reflected in my writing, I think; there's a bunch of repetition, use of refrains and motifs and anaphora. Honestly, I found prose writing quite hard (ESPECIALLY the dialogue) but I gave it a shot; I just got really inspired and determined to write something for this fandom. 
> 
> This mixes book canon with show canon but most importantly I have tried to retain the essence of both characters as much as possible. I'm not entirely sure how successful I've been. As I said, I found dialogue very difficult, which is why so much of this story is introspection and more of a character study than anything else. 
> 
> I've looked it over at least thrice and I think I combed out all the mistakes but if you find one, or think any part could do with some clarification, please let me know. 
> 
> Title is a line from Rilke's Second Duino Elegy; chapter title is a line from his Third Duino Elegy.
> 
> Enjoy, I suppose!

It began, as it will end, with a bookshop. It was an old bookshop, a tired bookshop, a bookshop whose peeling façade was painted centuries ago and never refreshed - but it was a bookshop filled with love. That’s what matters, in the end.

The bookshop belonged to a man-shaped being with a penchant for impossible opening times. His name was Aziraphale, though he was known as a Mr A. Z. Fell, and he was a collector of rare books, specialising in books of prophecy. It was a rather specialised specialisation and as such he was somewhat of a leading authority on prophetic texts. As a side project, he collected Bibles with publishing errors. Many believed him a religious fanatic. Some speculated him to be rather more ethereal than he let on. He never proved either group right. Mostly, he just wished to be left alone.

Aziraphale was currently engaged with cataloguing his books. It was a continuous process, never finished because of the sheer amount of books he possessed and the fact that he had only thought to start keeping a catalogue half a century after the opening of the bookshop. He also never got more than a handful of books catalogued before he was distracted by reading them, or a crossword puzzle, or a customer, or a message from his boss, or an impulse to go for a walk, or the need for a cup of cocoa, or, more recently these days, a visit from Crowley. Visits from Crowley were, for Aziraphale, akin to overcast skies suddenly breaking apart and the sun shining with ferocity. Sometimes, they were preceded by a phone call. Today, Crowley’s arrival was heralded only by the soft ding of the bell above the bookshop’s door.

‘Angel!’ Aziraphale heard called; he smiled as he thought of how every time he heard it said it sounded more and more like an endearment. ‘Angel, let’s do lunch! I’m bored and I heard a new restaurant has opened in Belgravia.’

A second man-shaped being rounded the corner and poked his head into Aziraphale’s backroom. He was tall and sleek and put together in a way Aziraphale was not, could be described as other-worldly in a way Aziraphale could not be - though only taken to mean ‘impossibly handsome’, or perhaps ‘impossibly rich’. Aziraphale knew for a fact that the flashy sunglasses covering the only evidence of _true_ other-worldliness cost more than the insurance on his bookshop (that is, if he bothered with insurance. In Aziraphale’s opinion, no insurance could cover his priceless books, and miracles worked better ninety-nine percent of the time). The suit was tailor-made to order, the snake skin shoes were presumably shoes, the hair was styled in such a way that portrayed artful messiness but told of hours in front of a mirror, and the wrist watch was the type that could tell you more than just the time. And he was grinning at Aziraphale broadly, like _lunch_ was the century’s most exciting event.

Aziraphale smiled in return, not as broad but just as radiant, and stood from his desk’s chair.

‘Crowley, dear, what a surprise,’ he greeted, though it wasn’t. Crowley’s visits were rarely surprises, planned or unplanned. He came to the bookshop so often now that more than two days without a sign of him was more of a surprise than anything else. Yet Aziraphale continued through the motions, refusing to be the first to acknowledge the shift in their relationship. ‘Lunch sounds wonderful. I could do with something to eat, I think.’

Strictly speaking, neither of them _needed _to eat. But Aziraphale enjoyed it so, and Crowley seemed to enjoy spending time with him, so if their outings weren’t to London’s various parks on duck-feeding missions, they were to London’s various restaurants to satisfy whatever cravings Aziraphale had that particular day. Today, Aziraphale was craving soup.

Beige coat on and bookshop keys in hand, he led a smirking Crowley out onto the street and asked as he locked the door, ‘So what kind of restaurant are you taking me to, then?’

Crowley stood patiently next to him, weight all one leg and hand absently fiddling with his blazer’s buttons. He looked like a model on his day off who had forgotten that he could stand in any way other than a catwalk pose. Next to him, Aziraphale felt like the marshmallows he loved to put in his cocoa.

‘French, I think. Least, that’s what I heard, anyway.’ With a grin, he held his car’s door open for Aziraphale, who flashed a quick smile in thanks, choosing not to vocally disapprove of the fact that Crowley had parked his vintage Bentley on the double yellow lines outside the shop.

‘Perhaps they’ll have crepes,’ Aziraphale said wistfully as they passed Piccadilly Circus. Crowley shot him a fondly amused look.

Queen played softly through the car. Aziraphale has truthfully never developed a taste for modern music, still very much stuck in the past, as with most things. He enjoyed Chopin and Debussy and Strauss and, if he was feeling particularly bold, Mozart. But he had grown fond of Queen through his exposure to their music while in Crowley’s car and he listened with a warm happiness as ‘You’re My Best Friend’ started playing. It was the same warm happiness that dawned on him in the aftermath of a little miracle performed to keep books safe from a bomb, the same warm happiness that spread through him on the way home from Tadfield on a bus marked ‘Oxford’, the same warm happiness that sung in his heart when the bookshop’s bell rang with a visitor’s arrival after closing hours. He daren’t name it yet, but it felt an awful lot like its name would begin with an L.

The restaurant was grand, even amongst the grandness of Belgravia. The area was crowded, even among the crowds of London. Crowley miracled a parking spot free on the side of the road, casting a significant look towards Aziraphale as if to say ‘_look, not on yellow lines this time’. _Aziraphale was more worried with whatever Crowley had done with the vanished car, but held his tongue. It wasn’t their problem, really.

There were no tables free when the pair stepped inside, until suddenly there were. The waiter smiled pleasantly at them as they took their seats and Crowley ordered a bottle of wine, not even looking at the wine list. Whatever he wanted, they had, much to the surprise of the waiter.

‘So, angel, any news from Upstairs?’ Crowley asked as he twirled his glass. Wine sloshed dangerously around.

‘No, nothing. It’s all been rather quiet. I suppose they really have left us alone…’ Aziraphale answered, as per routine. It was a game they played, he thought, or least of all a pretence. He’d tell Crowley the second he heard from Heaven and he knew Crowley knew this. This was just another way they refused to acknowledge their changed relationship.

Crowley hummed. ‘Mhm, no noise from Below either,’ he drummed his fingers on the table once, twice, thrice. His other hand cupped his chin. ‘I doubt they’ve forgotten. They’ll want to _talk_ sooner or later. Might not be today, or tomorrow, or even in a millennium, but eventually.’

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. This was part of the routine, too, this needing to calm a worked up Crowley, but it always worried Aziraphale. Did Crowley ever stop looking over his shoulder? He never knew quite what to say to get him to relax.

Not that Aziraphale himself was relaxed, no. He too was scared of the inevitable confrontation with Heaven and Hell. But he also knew that there was no use living in that state of terrified paralysis, unable to go a day without expecting something to happen. He’d never catalogue any books at all if he worked himself up into the same state as Crowley.

It’s not often Aziraphale was the more collected one. ‘Dear,’ he started, unsure how to continue. ‘When they come, we’ll be ready. We’re on our own side now, remember?’

The words were true but even Crowley could hear the apprehension behind them. They were just two man-shaped beings who had grown fond of humans and were being punished for it by their respective bosses. They smiled at each other regardless. Perhaps Aziraphale wasn’t able to dispel all of their worries, but the reminder that they had each other was welcome.

Lunch turned out to be a wonderful affair, after that. Aziraphale had his soup, a creamy bisque, and Crowley (who never normally ate) devoured the bread in the basket that came with it. The restaurant did indeed serve crepes, and they had some for dessert, the both of them. Talk of Heaven and Hell was put aside for a while and instead the two discussed the new book that Aziraphale bought from a fellow collector recently, and how Crowley’s neighbour had not-so-subtly hinted that they thought his décor could do with an update, and how Anathema had called and given their monthly update on Adam, and all manner of things in between. The afternoon London sky was still overcast, perhaps even darker than it had been when they arrived, but the inside of the restaurant was lit by soft candles and artful lights and by Crowley’s smile when he looked at Aziraphale and Aziraphale’s smile when he looked at Crowley. Belgravia ached with flashes of happiness.

-

After lunch, they retired to Aziraphale’s bookshop. On Thursdays, he was technically open until six in the evening, but Aziraphale was nothing if not known for his erratic opening hours so he felt no remorse in closing the shop early and settling down with Crowley in the backroom. They shared a bottle of a vintage wine Aziraphale had forgotten about until then.

It took a lot to get either of them drunk. Approximately eight bottles between them, actually. So they were still sober, only starting to perhaps feel the warmth of the alcohol in their veins - but they made no effort to stick to coherent thought.

‘No, no, no, no-no-nonono,’ Crowley said, slumped against the table with a hand gesturing wildly, a miracle the only thing stopping the wine flying out of its glass. ‘No, see, I _spoke_ to a police officer the other day, yeah, and _she_ said that there are exceptions to the double yellow line rule, an’ besides, I’ve been driving since cars were invented, so I’d think I’d know what I’m doing!’ He pointed at Aziraphale, who was frowning in disapproval, wishing he had never voiced his concerns. ‘_You _can’t drive, can you?’

Aziraphale indeed could not drive. He could miracle a car to go (which is what he suspected Crowley of doing, sometimes), but he didn’t actually know what to do behind the wheel of a vehicle. He scrunched his nose up indignantly.

‘No, but-‘

‘Well, there we go, then! You can’t drive and I can and I’ve been driving longer than anyone on this planet, so _there.’ _Crowley took a gulp of his wine to punctuate his statement.

‘But, the bookshop’s right on a corner, Crowley, and the street is so narrow and cars park on the other side of it so you were blocking everyone behind you!’

Crowley simply shrugged and drank again, sunglasses slipping down his nose. He took them off and put them away before refilling his glass and sitting back in his chair, completely unconcerned with his driving practices. Aziraphale shook his head at him.

There was a pause as Crowley refilled Aziraphale’s glass, too. The bottle finished; Crowley looked down the neck as though stray drops were hiding and refusing to come out at the bottom. Then he tossed it over his shoulder, ignoring Aziraphale’s wince as the bottle hit the floor, miraculously not shattering, and rolled under a bookshelf.

He ran a hand through his hair, now truly messy and no longer just artfully. ‘You know, angel,’ he started again, ‘I’ve actually been meaning to… ask you something, I suppose.’

Aziraphale hummed, sipping his wine. He waited for Crowley to continue, but he didn’t. The cheer of their banter moments ago faded, but it faded slowly, like molasses running, the memory of warmth lingering just behind them. Crowley’s unspoken question sat on the horizon. It didn’t promise the end of that warmth; if anything, it reinforced it. But it felt big. It felt like it had the _potential _to snuff out that warmth.

‘I… Aziraphale, I… Ngh!’ Crowley groaned in frustration, lowering his head into his hands. Aziraphale could see how hard it was for his friend to say whatever it was he had on his mind, unused to seeing him so distressed and unused to hearing his name from his lips. The last time Crowley had seemed quite so anguished was just after he had been discorporated six months ago. The time before that was… well, Aziraphale couldn’t remember. He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like it.

Crowley’s pain pained him. When Crowley’s voice had broken with heartbreak, telling him that he had _lost his best friend_, it had been all Aziraphale could do not to start to cry. He had felt the waves of crippling agony even not physically present and all he knew how to do was stutter a wretched _I’m so sorry to hear it_. As a being of love, Aziraphale wasn’t conditioned to deal with hurt.

Crowley’s head snapped suddenly up to him, yellow snake eyes aflame. ‘You said you forgave me. Do you think demons are forgivable?’ The alcohol and emotion had roughened his voice. It sounded like the words were being ripped from him.

Aziraphale’s eyes softened. So that’s what Crowley wished to ask. The warmth they shared lingered like a ghost between them; it could be banished with just a few, simple words. Thankfully, Aziraphale has always known the right thing to say, when it mattered.

‘Of course, my dear. Angels are supposed to love all beings and forgive those who have sinned. You’re not human, but no one ever said redemption was restricted to humans only,’ he said, gently. At the back of his mind, he guiltily recalled all the times he had spoken down to Crowley for his status as a demon. _Get thee behind me, foul fiend. Foul fiend. Foul. Fiend. _It wasn’t regret, burning the pit of his stomach, but something similar. An ache, of sorts. He thought of _I’m soft_ and _You pathetic excuse for an angel_ and he wondered how Crowley hadn’t spent more centuries asleep than he had just to escape the emotional turmoil he must have felt. 

‘Do you? Love me?’ It was said so softly, a whisper, the softest Aziraphale had heard Crowley speak apart from when muttering curses under his breath. It was a whisper filled with insecurity and an unbearable amount of hope.

‘_Yes,_’ he answered, a whisper of his own, filled with just as much insecurity and just as much hope but also with adoration. It dawned on him that the warm happiness he felt around Crowley was named Love and he wondered how he hadn’t realised before. It wasn’t the kind of love he was used to feeling - that was a general love, a love for all things, a love for the ducks that snapped their bills at him in the park and the humans who fed them bread for no other reason than _just because, _and even for his brethren, no matter how terrible they could be sometimes. And it wasn’t an all-encompassing divine love for God, though it was an all-encompassing feeling. It flooded through each and every corner of both his celestial and his human form. This was the kind of love that he had felt humans feeling for other humans. His hands began to shake. _Yes_, he had breathed so intensely, meaning _I adore you _and not just _I grant you absolution_ as Crowley must believe. He ached with the feeling he had felt radiating off Crowley in that pub, drinking his grief.

Heartbreak. It didn’t suit angels. But it would hurt less to keep his true feelings to himself than to divulge them to Crowley who, he was sure, would not reciprocate. He was an angel, and not a very good one at that. _Pathetic. Soft. _He couldn’t stand the thought of losing Crowley’s friendship.

Crowley, for his part, looked just as ready to fall to pieces as Aziraphale. A revelation, he supposed, that an angel could grant a demon forgiveness. He tried to smile encouragingly, reach out a hand in benediction, but Crowley ignored it in favour of staring at him.

It was strange, Aziraphale thought, how they had gone through six-thousand years together and yet were regarding each other with such caution and desperation now. Six months after the very first day of the rest of their lives, they were experiencing a brand new First Day of the Rest of Their Lives, this one just for the two of them.

Aziraphale wondered whether this would lead into a conversation about the shift in their relationship.

Crowley sniffed. It tried to sound haughty but failed and settled in the ball park of pathetic. ‘Hmph,’ he sighed.

‘Ngh,’ he groaned.

‘Ah,’ he said. And then promptly snapped his mouth closed, wretched expression on his face. He pulled his sunglasses from his blazer’s inside pocket and slipped them on. Aziraphale recognised it as the insecure tick that it was.

_Oh dear, I’ve broken Crowley_, was his only thought, but he smiled stiffly and said, ‘My dear?’

And when Crowley’s head turned towards him again, a bitter smile the likes of which Aziraphale had never seen before was on his face. ‘Thank you, angel,’ he said, a quirk to his lips not normally present, _angel_ said with slightly less endearment than had become the norm. Aziraphale frowned, confused. What had he said wrong?

‘Think I best be off, now, anyway,’ Crowley continued, standing up and flicking nonexistent dust off his shoulders. He was trying to act like the whole five minutes just passed hadn’t happened. Aziraphale gazed up at him dumbly from where he was still sat.

‘You can’t go,’ he said weakly, not meaning to echo his words from their last argument six months ago that nearly ended with the world destroyed. This time, though, there _was_ somewhere to go: with Heaven and Hell off their backs for the time being, Crowley could spend as much time sleeping in his flat as he wished. Aziraphale was powerless to stop him.

Crowley smiled something sad, rapped his knuckles on the tabletop twice, and sauntered out of the backroom. Aziraphale heard the ring of the bell above the bookshop’s door, the sound cold. He was still staring at the space Crowley had occupied only seconds ago.


	2. Binding With Briars My Joys and Desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Blake's _Garden of Love_
> 
> There is no dialogue at all in this chapter, and it's mostly angst, but things will get better in the next one.

Crowley’s Mayfair flat was an interior designer’s dream. It was sleek, like its owner. It was suave, like it’s owner. It was all harsh lines and clean edges, like its owner. Crowley had made sure to make it a complete reflection of himself.

It also wasn’t home.

Home, he’d unconsciously decided sometime around 1850, was a bookshop on the corner of a street a mile away, in Soho. It was dusty and it was dimly lit and it was a fire hazard. It smelt of old books and hot cocoa and angel. It was the colours burgundy and beige.

But home was not where he lived.

Crowley had owned many residences throughout his time on Earth, his Mayfair flat being his favourite but probably not his last. It was a large, open plan space furnished in white, minimalist in style to the point where there was nothing in it apart from some CDs, some plants, and a cartoon sketch of the Mona Lisa. His previous flat had been in Kensington and had been an Art Deco masterpiece. The place he lived in before that had been a house in Chelsea, and before _that_ it had been a house in Grosvenor Square. For the past few centuries he’d been living somewhat permanently in London, but he’d also had properties in Brighton (_lots_ of tempting to be done when the Prince Regent was throwing his extravagant parties in his extravagant pavilion), Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Bucharest, Rome, Alexandria… well, just about everywhere. In Rome, he had lived in the imperial palace with the emperors. In Bucharest, he had owned a beautiful manor. He bounced from place to place, avoiding doing his job as much as possible. He only settled on a more permanent level in London because that’s where Aziraphale had started to spend much of his time, befriending the likes of Queen Elizabeth and Shakespeare. But he had found himself warming to it before long. London was a heart. It was constantly bursting - with love, with anger, with sorrow or with joy. Emotion was rawest in London.

But none was to be found in Crowley’s flat. It was barren, a wasteland save for the dozen or so potted plants dotted around in various corners and the da Vinci sketch. One constant in all of his residencies since the 15th century had been that sketch: it had been a gift from the artist (Crowley had been friends with da Vinci and, visiting his studio one day, had said, _That’s jolly good_, to which Leonardo had replied, _Yes, well, I got the smile right in the principle sketch here, but I cocked it up when I started painting. Why don’t you have the blasted thing? I don’t want a reminder of my mistake_, and so Crowley came to possess an invaluable cartoon of the world’s most famous painting).

It was evening. The ceiling-to-floor windows showed London in darkness, glittering city lights like stars. Beautiful. Aziraphale might have had a hand in creating such lovely places as Shropshire, but only humans could conceive such concepts as electricity. Potential for good and for evil; how much more human could something be?

Good and evil. Just names for sides, in his opinion, but also what it all came down to in the end. Balance. Heaven verses Hell. Aziraphale verses him. That, of course, quickly became Aziraphale _and _him. _We’re on our own side, now,_ he had said, because Aziraphale was as good at his job as an angel as _he_ was at being a demon. They weren’t with their respective Head Offices, anymore, but they weren’t human, either: they were _Other. _They were on their own side.

Forgiveness had been something he had thought about since his Fall, but only with fear. He thought about it the same way one might spy on someone from their peripheral vision, and never dared to give it his full attention. Not from disinterest in the concept, but just… out of fear. Fear that it was impossible.

Indeed, most angels - in fact, perhaps it would be more accurate to say, all but _one_ angel - would have said that it _was _impossible for a demon to be forgiven. Crowley thought of Gabriel and Michael and Uriel and Sandalphon. They were traditionalists, 14th century minds just like Hastur and Ligur and most of Hell’s demons. See, when it came down to it, Heaven and Hell really _weren’t _that different.

So it was that a century ago, around the time of the World Wars, he realised it didn’t _matter _what he did or hoped for: he was never allowed penance. Hitler couldn’t be forgiven, and he was human. Crowley was a demon. Sure: he had never done anything as bad as what the humans could do to themselves - but that was the ineffable bit, wasn’t it? That’s what Aziraphale called it, this human-exclusive capability to _make choices_ and to _be sorry _and then to hopefully _make better choices_. Crowley was a demon: as far as most angels were concerned, he was predisposed to evil because choice-making was the prerogative of humans. Aziraphale had believed that, too, for some time. It’s only been in the last century, Crowley speculated, that he had changed his stance on the whole _good _and _evil_ thing.

_May you be forgiven, _Aziraphale had said, naïve or cruel in hoping for something that Crowley had long come to terms with being impossible. _I forgive you_, he had then said. They’d been standing on the street next to the bookshop. That was home, for both of them. It was crowded and Crowley was angry and the sky was darkening, the Bentley’s engine was still roaring and Hell was after him and Aziraphale _forgave _him. How ironic that the angel hoping to speak directly to God in order to stop the apocalypse had done a deed that really only She could do. _I forgive you_, Aziraphale had said, and then Crowley had told him he was leaving and would never think about him again, almost as if to prove exactly why he _shouldn’t_ be forgiven. It was a defence mechanism. He was scared. He couldn't help it.

He thrust it to the back of his mind, after that. He’d had a close call with Hastur, he’d thought he’d lost Aziraphale, the world had been ending. Even now that things had gone back to normal - or, as normal as things _could _be - he tried not to think about it. Down that path lay heartache.

Except, well, he was lying a little to himself, wasn’t he? He _did_ think about it, a lot, almost all the time. Passively. A little whisper deep down, where he could pretend he couldn’t hear it. It grew a little louder and a little more insistent when he walked past churches (which was often, in such an old city as London), or spent time with Aziraphale (which was often, him being his best friend), or lay in bed (which was often, since he liked his sleep). Because, really, the issue was that he didn’t _want_ to want forgiveness. He was a demon - why wasn’t he more demonic? Why did he still care? Why did he strive for pardon the same way a plant leans towards the light?

Aziraphale’s earnest, easily given forgiveness, both on the sidewalk six months ago and that evening in his bookshop, was overwhelming for Crowley. He felt it came _too _easily and, really, didn’t Crowley need to prove that he had earned it in some way? He didn’t feel worthy, despite how he ached with want for it.

He also ached with heartbreak. It was a different sort to the heartbreak he felt, sitting on a flaming bookshop’s floor, screaming at Heaven and Hell. It was more the sort of heartbreak he felt whenever he looked at Aziraphale and Aziraphale was looking back, a smile on his face so warm Crowley ceased feeling cold and eyes soft with happiness. It wasn’t sharp and bitter and sickly, like when he thought someone had killed his best friend; it was more like a slow-acting poison and he could feel every crack of his heart.

_Do you? Love me? Yes. _

He shouldn’t have asked, really, and he didn’t even have the excuse of being drunk out of his mind to hide behind. The truth of the matter was that Crowley was desperate and the words had slipped out unbidden. He wished they hadn’t. _Of course _Aziraphale loved him - he was an angel, wasn’t he, and he had proven himself to be different from the rest of his lot plenty of times, so it would make sense that he’d be the first angel to love everything genuinely rather than just theoretically as his fellow angels did. Crowley was no exception. He’d love Beezelbub if they ever showed signs of wanting redemption.

So Crowley knew that _Yes_ meant _You are capable of being loved and I forgive you_, rather than _I love you_. He felt pathetic, aching in this way over a simple word. But damn Aziraphale - didn’t he know what his reply had sounded like? Didn’t he know how such a little word could break Crowley’s heart more thoroughly than anything else? Surely he wasn’t so naïve as to not know the implications of _Yes_ said like that.

No, that wasn’t fair. He couldn’t project his hurt onto Aziraphale and blame him for being the naïve, somewhat oblivious but well-meaning angel that he was. A century or two ago, perhaps he would’ve had no qualms with it. A century or two ago he would’ve thought nothing of falling asleep for a decade and not speaking to Aziraphale until their next chance meeting. But a century or two ago, they hadn’t stopped Armageddon. That changed things.

It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault that he didn’t love him the way Crowley wanted to be loved. And, really, forgiveness should be enough, shouldn’t it? He shouldn’t be greedy, that would prove he’s not deserving of redemption.

He was going in circles and getting nowhere. Hope was such a stupid, silly little thing and Crowley despised it with every inch of his being, yet he couldn’t stop hoping. It didn’t matter.

-

The bookshop was dark. This was par for the course on a Thursday evening - on any evening on any day of the week, in fact - and indeed for most days too. It was a deterrent tactic that Aziraphale gleefully employed. Customers wouldn’t want to buy books they can hardly see, would they?

But this evening, the bookshop was _particularly _dark. Normally, a few candles (out of the way of any papers, of course) would be lit, perhaps the desk lamp, too, or the dim, lightbulb-scarce overhead light. Some source of light, anyway, so that Aziraphale could see the book that he was reading or the scroll that he was studying. Angels didn’t_ technically _need light to see, really, but six-thousand years of human habits had stuck somewhat and besides, Aziraphale normally liked the aesthetic of twinkling candles or a warm-toned bulb.

Not tonight. Tonight, he sat in complete darkness. There _was_ a book in front of him, opened on his lap, and though he could very well make out what it said with his angelic eyesight, he wasn’t reading it. There was no pleasure in it. Not tonight.

He was still sat in the same place that he had been drinking with Crowley only a few hours ago. He was still staring at the space his friend had been before waltzing out of the shop. He couldn’t understand what he had said wrong and he was aching with a sharper heartbreak than he had felt before. He’d indirectly confessed his feelings to Crowley’s face. Perhaps Crowley had realised what his _Yes _had really meant and had retreated in disgust. He had asked if Aziraphale loved him, not if he was _in love _with him, and Aziraphale’s love in his capacity as an angel probably meant something different to Crowley than Aziraphale’s love in his capacity as a person. Aziraphale being _in love with _Crowley couldn’t absolve him, could it? But his angelic love could.

Not that his angelic love meant a whole lot, really. Not anymore. _You pathetic excuse for an angel. Pathetic. _He was hardly an angel now, only really holding on to his status by a thread. When he’d returned from Hell and swapped stories with Crowley about what happened to him in Heaven, he’d had a jolly good laugh at the wool they’d been able to pull over their superiors’ eyes. But soon enough, left alone that night, he’d began to realise that he could have _Fallen_. And the risk was still high; Gabriel, he was sure, would plan to get rid of him some way or another, and this was just as good as any.

He hadn’t voiced his fears to Crowley. There was nothing either of them could do, if such a thing happened, so Aziraphale hadn’t seen reason to worry him unnecessarily. He had days when he accepted that that might be his fate and other days (more often than not) when he required Crowley to take him to dinner to distract him from mourning his angelic nature prematurely. He hated that the Rest of Their Lives post the failed apocalypse was being spent in fear and paranoia and anxiety. He had spent so much of the six-thousand years preceding it in fear and paranoia and anxiety; he truly had been hoping for a break.

But, that was that. There was nothing he could do, really: everything had already _been _done and now he had to just wait and see how Heaven would react. Whether he was reassigned, or made to Fall, or killed, or thrown in Heaven’s jail, or ignored for the rest of eternity, he would forever be _pathetic_. _Soft. Ridiculous. _He wasn’t an angel in any way more than appearance. Crowley would need to look elsewhere for Heavenly redemption because _he_ was in no position to grant it.

It hurt. It hurt almost as much as loving Crowley hurt.

It didn’t matter. Nothing did, really, except how much his heart ached. Goodness only knows how many books Aziraphale had read since the beginning of Earth; he’d been around to listen to the rhapsodes recite (had been, in fact, one of their first scribes), he had tried to save as many scriptures and scrolls from the burning Library of Alexandria, he had watched alphabets develop and languages rise and fall. He knew stories. Humanity’s best creation, he sometimes thought: what other creature could be so creative and so passionate and so, so, _so_ loving as to create a work of words (or of paint, or of stone, or of sounds) from nothing? Aziraphale had read many books, more than the average human could hope to read in an average lifespan. He dedicated his human persona to books, had opened a bookshop near a publisher’s shop just for the books.

It was thus he knew what heartache was, though literary descriptions could not have ever prepared him for the real thing. He had always wondered: how was it that humans could feel an emotional pain so strongly that they reacted physically? It seemed strange and implausible to him, an angel, whose most intense emotions had only ever been annoyance or great anxiety. When he started feeling it, that real and deep _ache_ in his chest, he’d wondered whether something was wrong with his corporation. The body had been new, give or take a couple of years, and Aziraphale had wondered whether it wasn’t Heaven trying to manipulate or sabotage him, or at the very least get back at him for having been discorporated in the first place.

Then had come World War Two and Aziraphale had barely caught his breath from the disasters of the Great War. He had lived somewhat permanently in London since the reign of Elizabeth the First; he sometimes took extended trips to other countries and cities, but London had become _home_. It had been the first place (save from the Roman Empire) where he and Crowley had met for pleasure rather than business: after the trip to Edinburgh, Crowley had taken the two of them to see the first booming performance of Hamlet at the Globe. So it was that he was determined to do anything to end the war, and this is how he had gotten caught up in the false British Intelligence set up that Crowley had rescued him from.

Crowley. Always rescuing him when he needs help.

Aziraphale had recognised his love for what it was with the _small demonic miracle _that had saved the books he had thought lost. Aziraphale had recognised his love for what it was when he brushed the demon’s hand when taking the bag from him; it was obvious in the way he let his fingers linger. Aziraphale had recognised his love for what it was when Crowley had said _Lift home?_ like he hadn’t just saved the books, like the whole of London wasn’t wailing with the sounds of sirens, like a bomb hadn’t just fallen right where they stood.

The Blitz had devastated Aziraphale, had momentarily crippled his hope in humanity, had shook him to his core in a way that few memories from the Great War could. But it had also been a period of discovered love, a destroyed and flaming church the scene of a love realised. That’s when he realised what he felt was physical heartache: it was a gnawing, a scratching, a tummy-ache and a sore throat all in his chest. And it only happened in relation to Crowley.

Nearly eight decades had taught Aziraphale how to live with it. It was fine. Everything was _fine, _until Crowley started asking _do you love me _and Aziraphale had to pretend that his _Yes _meant _yes_ in an angelic capacity rather than in a personal one. It’s not _fine_ anymore because now he doesn’t just feel heartbreak. Now, he feels mortification and fear and self-pity _as well as _heartbreak. He feels _pathetic. _

His hand reached for the phone. It hesitated, aloft above the receiver. Just like so many other things, it reminded him of Crowley. Crowley, who had bought a telephone for him when they had first been invented so that they could keep in touch a little easier than chance meetings and letters. Crowley, who had then bought him a new one every time an improved model had come out - Aziraphale in fact owned a number of much more modern phones than the vintage Bakelite rotary one that he used. They were stored in the back of the shop, some of the more recent models actually rather expensive, he believed. He didn’t use them simply because he enjoyed the motion of dialling on a rotary one. Crowley couldn’t understand it, had chuckled when Aziraphale had told him that. Crowley, who constantly kept up with the most modern of technology, replacing his phone and computer every couple of months.

Crowley, who he had chased out of his shop with an unwanted confession.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, turning his head as though in pain. Then he reached again for the phone, this time bringing the receiver to his ear and dialling Crowley’s number before he could hesitate once more.

‘_Hey. This is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style.’ _

Ah. Aziraphale hadn’t really considered that Crowley wouldn’t pick up, though perhaps he should have. Crowley had always picked up when he called, unless he was out, and then it was normally because he was on his way to the bookshop.

He let the voicemail stretch on, silence filling it. He would have spoken, except that now, faced with the empty ear of a machine instead of Crowley, he wasn’t sure why he wanted to say anymore. _Sorry, _perhaps, or _Are you alright,_ or _What can I do to make it better _\- but these were things to be said to Crowley, not to the void of a voicemail. Aziraphale might be _soft, pathetic _and _ridiculous, _but when it truly came down to it, he was most certainly _not _a coward.

The voicemail tone beeped at him, announcing that time to leave a message was up, and the dead dial tone rang in his ear. He held the receiver up for a second longer before jerkingly putting it back in its place. Then he turned and stared out the window, desolate and hopeless. His only other option was to go to Crowley’s flat and try to see him, but from the lack of response on the phone, Aziraphale doubted he’d be very welcome there. He didn’t want to make everything worse.

It was darkening outside. Tonight there’d be a storm, probably; already the first drops of rain fell. Aziraphale watched them from his seat inside the bookshop. He’d been with Crowley for the first ever storm on Earth, had provided shelter from it just as humans were now doing for their friends and loved ones outside as they ran for cover. Umbrellas hadn’t been invented back then, but Aziraphale had always felt as though wings provided a certain warmth that a simple umbrella could not.

It rained all night. Aziraphale watched it all from same seat.


	3. Good Lies in the Bitterest Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Adelaide Procter's _Light and Shade_
> 
> I said it gets better.

Morning came with sunbeams and clear skies, puddles in neglected potholes the only evidence of less than perfect weather recently. Aziraphale still sat and watched it all through the bookshop’s window, frozen.

He jerked as though electrified when his phone rang.

‘Hello?’ He said, breathless excitement barely masked. The only one who would call this early could be Crowley.

_‘Hi, angel. Tea at the Ritz, pick you up at 4 p.m?’_

Aziraphale grinned, a face-splitting thing he was glad Crowley couldn’t see. He almost choked on tears of happiness.

_‘Yes,’_ he replied, ‘My dear fellow, that sounds wonderful.’

_‘Good. See you then.’_

The line clicked and went dead. Aziraphale helplessly put the receiver down, glad for the invitation but nervous and apprehensive too. Should he act as though nothing happened yesterday? Should he bring it up? Or should he leave it down to Crowley?

Well, nevertheless, Aziraphale was pleased that Crowley wasn’t going to ignore him. The silence between them after their argument in 1862 had devastated him, been part of the reason that the Word Wars affected him as terribly as they had. He’d been alone for the first time in a six-thousand year history. Even when they’d been across the world from each other he had never felt as alone as he had after leaving Crowley standing in St James’s park.

Four in the afternoon. It’ll be a late tea, then, but that makes it perfect for an evening spent drinking in the bookshop.

-

The car ride to the Ritz was spent in silence. It was tense, both parties resolutely staring straight ahead out of the windshield. There were no teasing hands waving around and abandoning the steering wheel, or sly side looks with twinkling eyes and amused smiles. There was just silence.

Crowley miraculously found parking like always and held the door open as Aziraphale stepped out, like always. Together they strolled through the doors of the Ritz, doorman tipping his hat in recognition and acknowledgement. How they must look, thought Aziraphale; showing up regularly, always together and always otherwise alone. A couple? A couple of friends? A couple of businessmen?

Inside, they were shown to their table within seconds. A bottle of champagne was already waiting for them. A waiter took their orders for tea. A pianist played softly in the background. They had a table near the edge of the hall, the fountain on the back wall a soft murmur of sound next to Aziraphale’s ear. The tiered plate with the finger sandwiches and scones and cakes was brought to them, as were their teas; Aziraphale took a deep inhale of his and sighed in satisfaction. It was a herbal blend of rose, something light and fragrant.

Silence continued to stretch between them. Crowley absently stirred his tea so precisely that Aziraphale reckoned it couldn’t be all that absent at all. He himself was fiddling with the little teaspoon, straightening it up and then knocking it out of place so that he could repeat the process. Everything he had wanted to say to Crowley last night when he had called him was on the tip of his tongue, evading him now. Perhaps he didn’t have to say anything. Crowley had extended this invitation to tea, hadn’t he? Perhaps all was forgiven and forgotten.

On the other hand, perhaps this was the ‘last supper’, as it were, and Crowley was about to tell him that they shouldn’t see each other again.

He wouldn’t do such a thing in such a place as this, though, surely… the Ritz had become their sanctuary.

Or maybe that’s exactly why Crowley had chosen the Ritz to tell him such a thing. To taint the memories he had of this place so he could never enjoy it again.

Would Crowley do that? He didn’t think so, but sometimes Crowley be so unpredictable that it’s always best to not take bets on what he’s thinking…

‘Angel?’

Aziraphale looked up from the teaspoon and into Crowley’s eyes - or, at least, their general position, hidden as they were by the ever-present sunglasses (a member of staff at the Ritz had once asked Crowley to take them off as they violated their dress code… no one knew what happened to that employee after that, and no one had ever asked him since).

Crowley was leaning forward, chest pressed against the edge of the table as he stared intently at Aziraphale.

‘Are you alright? Your breathing went all funny for a sec there, and I know we don’t need to breathe, but, well, it’s never done that before,’

‘Ah,’ Aziraphale said, surprised at how ragged his voice sounded. He cleared his throat. ‘Nothing to worry about, my dear.’

Crowley tilted his head at him. Aziraphale assumed it was an action accompanied by narrowed eyes, but he couldn’t be sure.

‘Well, alright. Hey, look, about yesterday-‘

‘No need to worry, dear,’

‘No, no, let me explain, would you? I just… walked out with barely a goodbye and you don’t even know why. That’s not fair and I recognise that.’

Well, this was rare. An apology from Crowley. Not that he was particularly the sort to never feel remorse, but it wasn’t often that he voiced it. Crowley’s sorries came in the form of actions, such as recuses from Nazi spies in darkened churches despite the consecrated ground burning his feet.

Aziraphale just didn’t think that Crowley _needed_ to apologise.

‘There’s really no need for that, now,’ He said.

‘Just shut up and let me say this, yeah?’ Crowley sighed. ‘Sorry, sorry, I just… I’m sorry for yesterday, angel. Things got a bit more difficult than I wanted to deal with and I walked out on you instead of facing the truth.’ He lowered his head. The heat from his tea steamed up his glasses, though he did nothing to stop it.

‘I… don’t know what to say, Crowley…’

‘Don’t say anything. Just drink your tea and forget it.’

‘No! No, I don’t think… I didn’t mean to make you _uncomfortable_, Crowley, and I’m sorry if I did.’

‘Didn’t make me uncomfortable. Thought I made _you_ uncomfortable.’

There was a pause. Then they both smiled bashfully at each other, dissolving into small laughs.

‘Well, glad that misunderstanding is cleared up, then,’ Crowley said. Aziraphale grinned back at him.

‘Indeed,’ he replied, lifting his champagne flute. Crowley tapped his own glass against it.

He took a leisurely sip as Aziraphale bit into one of the little sandwiches. Cucumber and cream cheese. It was his favourite, the freshness of the cucumber and the contrast of its crunch and the pillowy softness of the bread. He felt as though he were enjoying it for the first time all over again, what with the shadow of his and Crowley’s misunderstanding behind them.

There was still a pressure in the air, though, like Crowley was holding back on saying something. He waited. Patience was sometimes the best course of action, with Crowley.

‘Look, I just didn’t want you to feel at fault for my reaction yesterday, yeah? You forgive me and love me as an angel should and it’s so… so _wrong_ for me to want more than that, but I can’t help it. I keep _hoping_ it can be more, even when I know it can’t, and I just got so carried away and, I don’t know, _desperate_, yesterday, that it slipped out of my mouth before I knew it, and instead of dealing with it, I just walked out, and-‘

‘My dear,’ Aziraphale interrupted, amazed. He could hardly process what he had just heard. In his shock, all he could say was, ‘it’s alright.’

Crowley looked up at him, eyes peeking from beneath his sunglasses, vulnerable. He was fiddling with the stem of the flute. Aziraphale placed a hand over his to still the irritable movements.

He could barely breathe for hope, could hardly open his mouth to return the sentiment despite knowing that he had to say something, and quickly, too, if he didn’t want to lose Crowley forever. And forever could be a very long time, now that the apocalypse had been adverted. What was an eternity worth if it were spent alone, and what a waste of effort it would have been to have stopped the end of the world if the rest of forever was to be empty of what had made the world so bearable in the first place.

Crowley hadn’t said it in so many words, but he had admitted it, hadn’t he? Aziraphale had spent the last day, the last how many years, agonising over something that he needn’t.

Crowley hadn’t said it in so many words, but it was past time that one of them did. Aziraphale might be _soft_, _pathetic_ and _ridiculous_, but when it truly came down to it, he was most certainly _not_ a coward.

He squeezed the hand holding Crowley’s. ‘I’m in love with you, too, my dear,’ he said, softly. A whisper filled with insecurity, hope and adoration. The words burnt the back of his throat like hellfire as they came out, but it was a burn that meant _relief_, for he was no longer holding them deep down in his chest where they could hurt his heart.

The look that fell over Crowley’s face was one that echoed the tone of the whisper. Insecure, hopeful, adoring. Aziraphale was struck dumb by it, utterly speechless. He wanted to shift his gaze to the tabletop, the little teaspoon, the champagne flute: places safe from Crowley’s intensity. It was making him a little nervous.

How silly. Angels shouldn’t get nervous. Aziraphale wasn’t a coward, and he was going to look into that intense stare if only to prove himself an angel worth the look on Crowley’s face.

‘Aziraphale, I… no, angel, you’re not,’

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. Had he misjudged what Crowley had meant?

‘What?’

‘You’re not in love with me, angel,’ Crowley said, soft. He smiled, sadly, a smile just like the one he wore before walking out of the bookshop the day before. Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley’s hand, fearing a repeat of that moment.

‘Angels can’t love demons, angel. Not like that. You think you’re _in_ love with me. You really just love me, because you love _everyone_; you’re the only angel who does and you’ve always done it so intensely,’ he said. ‘You’re not _in love_ with me.’

Aziraphale stared at him dumbly. His mouth opened and closed, trying to make sense of what he had heard, trying to formulate a response other than _But I am!_

‘But I am…’ he said anyway, trailing off uncertainly. Crowley still wore that stupid sad smile. Aziraphale wished it off, wished for the smug sly smirks that had marked the best moments of their millennia-long relationship.

‘I am, Crowley, I am!’ He cried, suddenly fed up of that look on Crowley’s face that told him he had accepted this long ago and wouldn’t fight for anything more. ‘Ever since you saved those books, I knew! I was so scared to admit it so I didn’t, I let it burn in me… isn’t this how you feel? Isn’t this what you _want?_’ Devastation fell over him more harshly than it had the night before, listening to a lone bell announce Crowley’s departure.

Crowley, for his part, had extracted his hand from Aziraphale’s, but was now staring at him in open surprise. Even the sunglasses couldn’t mask the look of shock and awe on his face at Aziraphale’s outburst.

‘Angel…’

‘No! Why won’t you _listen_, Crowley? I know the difference between love and _love_ and I _know_ what I feel is _love_!’

A pause. It was Crowley’s turn to be struck silent. Aziraphale hadn’t shouted, respectful of his surroundings and polite to a fault even in the midst of a heated love confession, but he he had put all his emotions into his words and he was panting with the intensity of it. He took a sip of his tea, hands anxious to do something.

Around them, the waiters continued to weave around the tables expertly, Palm Court alive with the tinkling of forks against plates and teacups against saucers. Aziraphale eyed the other patrons edgily, afraid to look back at Crowley. He didn’t know what else he could say if Crowley still didn’t believe him. He didn’t know how he would handle another rejection.

Maybe he really did have the wrong end of the stick and Crowley didn’t feel the same way, his words earlier about something else and not a confession of love. Maybe Crowley had just been trying to give him a way to take back his words with dignity and save face, and by denying to do so Aziraphale had just embarrassed himself further. Maybe Crowley was trying to think of how to best let him down, how to best tell him that his feelings weren’t reciprocated in the least and gosh, Aziraphale, didn’t you see I was trying to save you from humiliation?

How stupid. How _pathetic_. How _ridiculous_.

‘Angel? Are you okay?’

Aziraphale looked back at their own table to see Crowley had taken his hand back in his own once again. He blinked hard at the sight, surprised when he felt tears recede at the action.

‘You were breathing funny again, Aziraphale. Are you okay?’

He nodded. He didn’t want to speak, afraid of what his voice would sound like, wrangled with emotion and with tears still forcing their way back down. He squeezed Crowley’s hand to punctuate his nod.

‘Look, angel, I’m sorry I doubted you, yeah?’ Crowley said; he sighed. ‘I was… scared, I suppose. Didn’t want to let myself hope. Let myself believe. An angel loving a demon. Impossible, right? Yeah… I couldn’t let myself just accept your words at face value. I still can’t, really, but I can see you’re just as desperate as me, so maybe… I’m not sure. Maybe it’s true.’

He smiled. It was that soft, sad smile, but this time it included Aziraphale instead of shut him out. Aziraphale returned it. Then both their smiles grew, till once more they were grinning at each other, though still more subdued than earlier.

‘I won’t forgive you, though,’ Crowley said through his grin. Aziraphale looked at him in confusion, no small amount of panic racing through him at the thought of having done something that Crowley couldn’t forgive. Crowley’s grin just grew.

‘I won’t forgive you for making me talk about my feelings like that, angel,’ he said, miming a gagging action a second later. Aziraphale felt the panic abate like a forest fire doused with water and he let himself chuckle at Crowley’s antics.

‘It’s a good thing that I’m not sorry, then, isn’t it?’ He replied, and he took a celebratory bite out of a scone (jam on top of cream, thank you very much).

Crowley smirked at him. He knelt an elbow on the table and placed his chin on his fist despite knowing how much Aziraphale disliked that, and took a sip of his tea. They talked of the new plant hybrid that Crowley had cultivated, and the invitation to tea from Madame Tracy that Aziraphale had received, and of how Anathema was hoping to open a herb and crystal shop in Tadfield. The only thing different was that the small glances each sent to the other’s hands, the small, secret smiles they shot each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking, weren’t hidden anymore. Mayfair ached with flashes of happiness.

-

Aziraphale was right. It _was_ the perfect evening for drinking at the bookshop.

They had gone through nine bottles of wine. Aziraphale was distantly concerned about the hole they were wearing in his fine wine stock, but distantly enough to not do anything about it. He was sure that sober-him wouldn’t be too concerned either.

Crowley was sat across from him, in the same chair as he had sat the previous night. That was Crowley’s chair, and the only reason that Aziraphale kept a seat other than his own in his backroom.

‘S’pose we’re like… swans, or s’mthing,’ Crowley said. Aziraphale frowned.

‘Feathery?’ He ventured.

‘Mate for life,’ Crowley said.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

A drunken, thoughtful silence.

‘Thought that was ducks,’ Aziraphale eventually said.

‘No, no, i‘s swans, honest,’ Crowley said. He frowned. ‘I think. Saw a, a, a documentary.’

Aziraphale grinned. ‘Like dolphins,’

‘What?’

‘Like the dolphin documentary you saw. About the big brains.’

‘Oh. Yeah.’

Another pause. They had finished a tenth bottle.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Crowley,’ Aziraphale said after some time. He looked over at his companion, sat in his designated chair, sprawled like the most comfortable place he could hope to be was the backroom of a Soho bookshop.

Crowley looked soft in the candlelight. Over the years, there had been few rare instances of Crowley looking at all softer than a razor blade, but tonight was one.

‘I’m glad to be here, angel.’ He replied in a tone that betrayed his adoration.

It was as close to hearing the words _I love you_ that Aziraphale would get, at the moment, and that was fine. He didn’t need to hear them when he could finally, _finally_ reach across the table and entwine his fingers with Crowley’s. Their joint hands laid together like the folded wings of two swans and for the first time in six millennia, Aziraphale thought that things could be fine.

They _loved_. That was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that. I really mean for this to go in a different direction, but here's where I've ended up. I might write more. We'll see. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
